


Stormy Weather

by RockSaltAndRoll



Series: Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Frottage, M/M, Mild Smut, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-05-01
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:10:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltAndRoll/pseuds/RockSaltAndRoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-serum, pre-war Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes (age 16)</p><p>Bucky stays overnight with Steve who has trouble breathing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stormy Weather

It was a warm, sticky summer night, the kind where the pressure closes in on you from every angle, oppressive, vice-like. It had been making it very difficult for Steve to breathe and his mother had been so reluctant to leave him when she went out to work for the night. When Bucky had turned up on their doorstep, still covered in a thin layer of sweat, dust and dirt from work and told her that he would stick with Steve all night just to be safe, his mother agreed and finally left. Bucky had always been good at taking care of Steve, ever since they were really small.

Between them they moved the cushions from the couch and onto the floor in Steve’s tiny bedroom. Outside they heard the low rumble of thunder as summer storm clouds rolled in over New York City and they threw the windows open wide, hoping to catch the breeze from the rain as it began to fall.

Bucky stripped off his shirt and washed the dirt of the docks from his body in a basin of cold water while Steve boiled a kettle on the stove and dissolved a blob of greasy VapoRub in a dish, breathing in the menthol vapours to help ease the tightness in his chest.

Afterwards, as the rain burst through the heavy black clouds and hammered on the wooden porches and iron fire escapes and glass window panes in a symphony of fat drops, Steve sat on the bed with his back resting against the wall, knees drawn up to balance a sketchbook. Bucky lay on top on the couch cushions on his stomach. He was propped up on his elbows, still naked from the waist up, hair wet and slicked back from his face and water droplets falling occasionally from the ends and rolling down the back of his neck and into the little groove made by the points of his shoulder blades. He was reading some old, battered book that he had borrowed from Steve’s book shelf, the lettering on the cover and spine too worn to be legible. Steve loved to watch Bucky read.

He looked at his friend’s profile over the top of his sketchbook, his pencil etching out the line of Bucky’s back and the way his shoulders were straight and defined, the way his spine curved gently at the bottom and rounded out again over his buttocks, still clad in slacks. Steve loved the way Bucky’s brow furrowed slightly when he read, deep in concentration. It was something he had always wanted to catch on paper and he had the opportunity now, whilst Bucky was otherwise occupied.

They must have been there for hours under the one crappy electric light bulb, reading and sketching with nothing but the hammering rain as background when the first lightning strike lit up the sky with a flash of white.

“Woah!” Bucky said, putting his book down and craning his neck to look out of the window, but the sky had now returned to black. He turned to Steve with a wide smile. “That was bright!”

Steve grinned at him over the top of the sketchbook. His left hand was covered in graphite from where he had smudged and blurred the lines of his sketch and he had to put his pencil down, now aware that his fingers were cramping up.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “I love summer storms.”

The thunder clapped loudly ahead as though responding and they both chuckled lightly. Bucky rolled onto his side and propped himself up, his hand cupping the side of his head.

“What are you drawing?” he asked, tilting his chin up slightly.

Steve toyed with the idea of telling a lie. He could have said that he was drawing something from memory or that he’d been sketching the view outside before they lost the light. But he didn’t.

“You,” he replied finally. Bucky blinked slowly, long lashes touching high cheekbones for a second before opening again.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Steve murmured, lowering his eyes to look at the graphite sketch of Bucky. “You’re good to draw.”

Bucky inhaled slowly through his nose, the corner of one side of his mouth twisting up into a coy smile.

“Oh? What’s so good about me?”

Steve laughed softly and shook his head. How could he even start to explain what was so good about Bucky? They were sixteen, and while Steve was still small and bony, ribs visible through pale skin and all angles, Bucky was broad and muscular, skin slightly bronzed through his days hauling orange crates in the sun down at the docks. He was confident in his own skin, proud of the way he looked and it showed. Bucky walked with a swagger and laughed easily, attracted people to him like a magnet with his certain sweetness. But more than that, Bucky was the loyalist friend anyone could ever ask for, and he was naturally kind and generous, and yet there was a certain danger about him. An air that made you think, if pushed, Bucky was the last person whose bad side you’d want to be on. He was beautiful in every way.

The lightning flashed again and this time the thunder crashed immediately afterwards, and the room fell into darkness.

“Crap,” Bucky cursed, hauling himself to his feet and making his way over to the open window. “It looks like the power is down for a few blocks.

“Ah, it doesn’t matter,” Steve replied, putting his sketchbook aside and stretching out on the bed. “It’s night time.”

The darkness was almost absolute, rich and velvet in the oppressive heat. Steve was suddenly aware of the sweat film on his upper lip and at his hairline. He reached under his mattress and pulled out a torch, holding it under his chin and turning it on.

“Are you afraid…?” he said in a deep voice, the yellow light casting shadows on his already angular face. Bucky turned his head to look at him and started to laugh.

“Yeah, I’m terrified,” his friend replied before getting to his feet and scrabbling about in the dark to find the drawer the held candles and matches. It took him a couple of attempts before Steve finally flashed the light over in his direction, and Bucky lit a few candles, leaving one on the dresser and bringing one over to sit on the floor near to the bed. Steve turned off the torch and lay back down. Bucky came to sit on the floor beside him and put his head on the covers near Steve’s belly, looking up at him with eyes that were practically navy in the low orange light. Outside, the rain never ceased its constant hammering.

“You never answered my question,” Bucky murmured after a few moments.

“What question?”

“What’s so good about drawing me?”

Steve tilted his chin down and looked at Bucky, whose hair had now dried and was falling forward into his eyes. It made him look so much younger than sixteen, or maybe just more innocent. Bucky walked around with a wickedly cocky glint in his eyes these days. Steve gently pushed the dark hair from his friend’s forehead with a single finger and smiled.

“Everything,” he replied honestly. “Especially before, when you were reading. You get this little brow furrow when you concentrate, and you bite your lip.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do. You’re always biting your lip.”

Bucky smiled and they fell into silence again, just looking at each other in the dark.

“Is your mom at work all night?”

“Yeah,” Steve replied. “She usually gets back about eight in the morning.”

He watched as Bucky’s bottom lip snagged against his top teeth again, and then he sat up, curling his legs under him to kneel.

“Then come here.”

It was almost a whisper, punctuated with a slight incline of his head.

Steve’s body seemed to move on its own accord, slowly rising to sit, legs gently swinging around and down, bare feet hardly skimming the floor as Bucky settled himself between Steve’s knees.

They had done this countless times over the last three years, on nights or afternoons when Steve’s mother was working and Bucky crashed on the couch cushions in his room. Steve wasn’t even sure why he wanted it so much. Maybe it was just Bucky, a construct of pure charm and raw sexuality, of humour and warmth, but Steve had known from the very first time that Bucky had pulled their bruised bodies together back when they were thirteen that he wanted to do this forever.

Bucky’s mouth was on the inside of his knee breathing gently through the fabric of Steve’s slacks, dark blue eyes looking up at him as his lips inched up his inner thigh. Steve’s breathing was already shallow and he’d barely even been touched. His head dropped back as Bucky’s mouth moved over the front of his slacks, warm breath filtering through to reach his skin and Steve’s body responded fast, blood rushing straight down to the place it was wanted most. It left him light-headed and he had to lean back on his elbows to steady himself as Bucky’s hand joined his mouth, palming Steve’s rapidly hardening cock through the cotton barrier. Steve knew that he gasped and he bit his lip as Bucky chuckled softly, the vibrations heightening the sensations that Steve was already being overwhelmed by.

They lost clothing slowly, piece by piece, skin gradually revealed and kissed and sucked at and teeth drawn gently across until every inch had been covered and they could move onto the next part. Sweat pooled in the crooks of Steve’s elbows and at the back of his knees, and he could feel it on Bucky’s scalp as he raked his fingers through the soft dark hair. He was fighting for breath again in the still air but Steve wouldn’t stop right now if it killed him, not when Bucky’s hot mouth was sucking marks onto his collarbone and his thumbs, roughened with manual labour, were brushing Steve’s nipples into hard nubs that sent shockwaves straight to the base of his spine.

He was pulled from the mattress and into Bucky’s lap, suddenly and a little roughly, and Steve moaned his surprise against Bucky’s ear as he wrapped his skinny knees around the narrow hips. Bucky pulled back slightly and looked at him, pupils blown making his eyes look almost black and wild, hands stroking up Steve’s sides firmly.

Steve didn’t know what Bucky saw in him, in this frail and damaged body that rebelled against him every day. But when he touched Steve like this, when he looked at him as though Steve was the sun at the centre of his universe, he didn’t care, because he was wanted regardless. Even being the way he was, he was desired and that knowledge made him so hard that it hurt.

He dug his fingers into Bucky’s sweat soaked hair and pulled him in, tongue licking its way into Bucky’s mouth, hot and messy as he ground his hips down. Hard flesh was caught between their slick bellies as they rocked against each other, Steve pressing down and Bucky’s hips rising to meet him, pressing Steve back into the hard wood of the bed frame.

The hammering of the rain disguised their noises, Bucky’s low, drawn out moans and Steve’s sharper gasps of breath as he desperately tried to suck in air around kisses, the high pitched cry as Bucky’s hand found its way down between their coated bodies and firmly grasped at Steve’s hardness. He pulled up and stroked back down and pulled up again, adding a little twist with his wrist as he reached the head that caused Steve to whine desperately.

His head was light, starved of oxygen and his thighs were shaking, belly hot and tight with impending orgasm, but he couldn’t come yet. He used what little strength he had left to shuffle back in Bucky’s lap and reach down between them to do for him what he was doing for Steve. Bucky’s mouth dropped open as his head fell forward onto Steve’s bony shoulder. Steve could feel him start to shake almost immediately and, knowing that Bucky was already so close, he let himself go. The tension snapped in his lower belly and the heat spread in waves down through his thighs and up into his chest and he really did stop breathing then as his body shuddered over and over, his hand tightening around Bucky’s cock and squeezing an orgasm from him too. He heard Bucky’s curse, ground out between gritted teeth just before he blacked out.

He was numb when he came round, lying on his side on the mattress with Bucky’s concerned face millimetres from his as he rubbed Steve’s back. Steve inhaled, shakily, his chest rattling harshly. Relief washed over Bucky’s features, his brow relaxing, eyes softening.

“Thank god,” he whispered. “I thought I’d killed you.”

Steve wanted to laugh, but it caught in his throat and made him cough instead. He sucked in two deep breaths and smiled.

“It would have been a hell of a way to go.”

“Don’t even joke!” Bucky replied, horrified. “How the hell would I even explain that to your mother?”

Steve’s eyes went wide and a grin slowly spread across his face.

“I would love to see her face.”

They looked at each other for a second before both dissolving into laughter at the same time, until Bucky’s sides hurt and Steve started coughing again. Bucky reached out and brushed Steve’s sweat-soaked blond hair from his forehead tenderly and gathered him to his chest, wrapping his arms around the skinny frame.

“You’re such a punk,” Bucky murmured.

“Jerk,” Steve retorted with a smile. He snaked an arm around Bucky’s waist rested his hand in the small of his back.

“I don’t know what I would do if I ever lost you.”

Steve sighed gently and closed his eyes, listening to Bucky’s heartbeat as it began to slow.

“Don’t worry. You never will.”


End file.
